


Mob ties put a hand in your bed

by Chaosandgunpowder



Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is a manic lawyer, Alex really doesn't care though, Alternate Universe - Mob, Barebacking, Blood, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, I just felt like this verse needed actual porn, M/M, Modern Era, One Shot, Porn with very vague plot, Potty mouth Alex is my headcanon, They're both twisted little bastards, Thomas is a mob boss, Without permission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26566999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaosandgunpowder/pseuds/Chaosandgunpowder
Summary: The man who owns New York has taken the time to send Alex a meticulously thought-out present and it’ssogood that the personalization of it makes him feel special and fuzzy andseen.One-shot prequel [aka: excuse for porn] toWe don’t need a globe to show you the world is ours, featuring mob-boss Thomas and manic-lawyer Alex. In case anyone wondered how this ridiculous relationship started out back when they werealmostfunctioning people and not obsessed with each other.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930312
Comments: 25
Kudos: 160





	Mob ties put a hand in your bed

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclaimer: I wrote this prequel before I'd even finished writing _we don't need a globe_ , along with nearly-all-of an insert to that fic too [upcoming]. I don't actually write that fast. I'm just posting them all at once.

It’s not even three days after Alex gets called last minute to take an upcoming case prosecuting John Adams for money laundering, the DA leaning heavily on implicating Thomas Jefferson in the whole situation, that he comes home to a blood-sodden bundle gracing his pillow, grotesque in the mid-afternoon sunlight beaming through his apartment window. 

The first thing he thinks is, _disappointing, what a tired trope_ , but there’s still an excited thrill in his gut and his heart beats faster with it so he gamely hops up to sit cross legged on his bed to unwrap the gift. 

It’s a _hand_ , severed messily, though Alex has seen enough gory shit now that it’s something he merely acknowledges with a passing hum. _Possibly a bread knife_ , he muses, _definitely something serrated_. On closer inspection it’s clear _someone_ has done their research. Alex can’t be in the business he is without hearing somewhat about Jefferson, how controlling he is, how people don't _breathe_ in his business without explicit permission. He doesn’t seem the type to leave this sort of nuance to someone else. Is this from him? Surely. He shivers at the idea of the kingpin of New York sitting down and learning Alex well enough to leave him something poetic like this; it’s a left hand, which catches his breath, because statistically only ten percent of the world’s population is left handed and Alex just happens to be one of them - the chances that this is purely coincidental are incredibly low. There’s a fountain pen sewn into its palm with a few careful, silk purple threads. What he’d thought was a paper bag around it turns out to be a copy of the essay he’d written last month for an economic publisher; _The Incomparable Social and Economic Detriments of Casino Businesses and the Proposal of their Sound and Logical Dismemberment by Alexander Hamilton_. He laughs aloud. 

It’s his paper. It’s an obscene threat to the thing he loves most; his writing, his _hands_ and it’s wrapped in _his paper_ , the one where he shat all over casinos and got to use the word _dismemberment_ in the title and he sort of loves it. He likes that there’s no note; that he’s expected to be intelligent enough to unpack these layers himself. It makes him feel important in the same way that walking into a courtroom makes him a little hard; the power rush of it, that he holds this person’s whole future in his dirty little hands. 

The man who owns New York has taken the time to send Alex a meticulously thought-out present and it’s _so_ good that the personalization of it makes him feel special and fuzzy and _seen_.

He’s aware it’s not quite a normal reaction but his instincts have always been a little distorted; too much death and destruction not to be a little wild; savage humor and more savage words and he can’t _abide_ boredom - this is the most exciting thing to have happened to him all goddamn year, so he grins, holds it up to examine it closer and tries to decide how to respond. 

~~~

In the end he takes a day to think it over before he does anything. He’s only in work an hour before Angelica pops her head around the door of his office and says;

“You’re happy. Why are you happy? Did you go on a date last night?”

“Nope.” Alex says, popping the ‘ _p_ ’ and not looking up from his monitor. 

“You’re glowing and it’s freaking me out. Did you get laid?” She wrinkles her nose and Alex laughs and doesn’t say _Thomas Jefferson sent me a human hand_. Even Alex knows that would be weird. He sips his third coffee of the morning and smiles in a way that convinces her she’s right without him having to lie, because in actual fact all he’d done last last night was change his bloody pillowcase, bury his face in the scent of copper dried into the pillow underneath, feeling _noticed_ and come hard all over his own hand. She doesn’t need to know that. Nobody does. 

“Hey, Ang,” he calls absently as she leaves, smug in her assumed answer. “Is that a new necklace? It’s lovely. Do you still happen to have the box?” 

Her hand flies to the showy, new, essentially heart-of-the-fucking-ocean sitting in the hollow of her delicate throat and she blushes, flustered. 

“Thanks. Yes, I think so...you want…the box?”

“If it’s not too much trouble for you, I think I’ve got a use for it.”

It’s not, and he does. He sits at his breakfast bar and pulls out the insert until the hand will comfortably fit within it, fingers placed carefully up against the satin lining. He’s just filling all the remaining space in the box with as much obnoxious silver glitter as he can when Hercules calls him. 

“Angelica said you finally got laid,” he greets. The clock on Alex’s oven reads 10pm. Herc and Eliza have just had her over for dinner, surely. 

“Angelica should mind her own goddamn business.” Alex snorts, again not lying. 

“Don’t be a dick, she’s excited for you. She said you looked happy.”

“I’m always happy,” Alex says breezily, and finally _there’s_ a lie. He closes the box carefully, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder. 

Hercules laughs. “Sure. You wanna go out on Friday?” 

“Yeah can do. John broke up with whatsername though so don’t mention her when you invite him.”

“Oh man, that fucking sucks,” and Alex loves Hercules and John but Christ he misses Lafayette and his brand of crazy right now, because it’s all just so dull, dull, _fucking dull._ There’s no fire in anything except the thrill of his cases; the rush of winning and the eloquence and the energy of them is the only thing keeping him sane. Everything else is boring, dishwater grey. Everything except the innocuous Tiffany’s box in front of him, pastel and bright and shiny. 

“Yeah, it’s shit.” There’s nothing else to be said; they’re in agreement. John’s heartbroken again and it _is_ shit, it sucks when John is miserable but it happens too often and Alex can’t bring himself to feel especially bad about this one - her lips had twitched downward whenever he’d spoken and he’d had to try really hard to pretend he didn’t hate her trilling laugh. He didn’t think he’d done a very good job. He sighs and shrugs it off, mind bouncing back to work already, back to the gutter and the grit. “While I’ve got you on the phone, what can you tell me about the effects of botched rhinoplasty on the skull? Could you tell that sort of thing post-mortem?”

~~~

Early the following morning Alex pulls out the newly-printed copy of Jefferson’s casino empire’s _official_ latest public financial report and a blood-red marker pen and goes to town tearing it to pieces, indicating exactly how the precious business he’d gotten shirty with Alex about is a shoddy, inefficient pile of crap. Thomas Jefferson is educated and intelligent in his own right, Alex knows this, has done his own research on the enigmatic man, and while his casinos are surely someone else’s job to run and are probably profiting just fine, Alex hopes it will gall his pride to know they’re under-performing and untidy while they do so. 

On the back he adds a eulogy, because he’s surely suicidal;

_You seem the type to like shiny things. I’m not. Did you keep the receipt?_   
_I suggest you invest the refund into fixing your shitty business. It’s really fucking sloppy._   
_If you want something you can damn well come and ask for it yourself._   
_A. Ham_

He wraps the box carefully in the report like wrapping paper, cuts the bloody pillowcase into a strip to tie in a ribbon on the top, puts it inside a nondescript envelope and takes a long route to work; stops by the obscenely large four-houses-wide, can-hardly-be-called-a-townhouse townhouse that every decent law enforcement, law practitioner and long-time New Yorker knows belongs to Jefferson. 

He pushes the envelope through the letterbox with a hard shove and stares up at the innocuous blinking camera in the corner of the door long enough for it to capture his raised eyebrows and unimpressed expression. Long enough for Jefferson to see that he delivered it himself, because Alex isn’t a fucking pussy. 

He flips off the camera with both hands for good measure before he leaves with his stomach full of dynamite.

~~~

He doesn’t hear anything the next day. Or the day after that. By the time Friday rolls around Alex is in a foul mood but drags himself out with Herc and John and they get mildly drunk, talk shit and FaceTime Lafayette in Paris before John starts crying and they pet him and put him in a cab. Hercules goes home to his cookie-cutter life telling Alex to _booty call whoever it is that put a smile on his face the other day because you’re being a miserable fucker_. Alex waves him off. He obviously doesn’t take the advice, but he does wander back into the bar and take someone home twenty minutes later, because he’s bored, horny and pissed off. 

The guy is short and stocky and smug, because Alex has always had a thing for an inflated ego, like-begets-like, he supposes. He’s got styled, floppy blond hair that Alex thinks he’d probably get shitty about if Alex pulled on it like he wants to and he doesn’t get annoying until he’s got Alex through his own front door and backed up into the living room wall, hands working Alex’s pants open and wrapping around him loosely. 

“-will look so good. Hey, what’s your name? I’m-“

“I really don’t care.” Alex interrupts, because he looks like a bit of a tool and if his name is _Todd_ or _Chad_ it’s going to turn Alex straight off and he _really_ needs to come tonight. He’s too tense. 

Hopefully-not-Chad gives his dick a quick stroke and says “You need to know my name if you’re going to scream it later,” and Alex laughs once right in his face, which is probably a bit rude, but _no_.

“Yeah no, that’s not fucking happening,” he scoffs, and then jumps and yelps out _Jesus fucking Christ_ when there’s an amused snort from across the dark living room. 

Alex has never met Thomas Jefferson, but he’d be shit at his job if he wasn’t able to recognize the man sprawled in his armchair, leg crossed ankle-over-knee. Even in nothing but moonlight, Alex can see the white of his teeth flashing dangerously when he grins wide and malevolent as Alex looks him over. He wonders if not-Chad feels Alex’s dick twitch in his grip as all the air gets sucked out of the room. He doubts it, because not-Chad swears and fumbles to get his hands out of Alex’s pants and _himself_ out of Alex’s apartment as quickly as possible. Alex doesn’t know if the guy also recognizes Jefferson; whether he knows the guy with his eyes focused dark and intent on Alex is the most untouchable mob boss on the east coast or whether he’s just creeped the fuck out by a dark figure lurking in his hookup’s living room. Either way he fucks off so fast it’s almost impressive; leaves Alex to be potentially murdered by a serial killer for all he knows, doesn’t even look back or hold the door open, so _that’s_ nice and heroic of him. Tool. Alex thumps his head back and groans in frustration as the door bangs shut. 

“Fucking _brilliant_ ,” he spits as he does his jeans up, strokes himself once in the process, because the thrill of the threat in his living room means he’s still hard, and he’s got his dick out anyway, so why the fuck not. 

He shuffles across the room to the kitchen, grumbling, flicks on the big overhead light as he goes because Jefferson clearly has tendencies towards the dramatic and Alex is an asshole who refuses to let him have the satisfaction. “Well that’s just great, that’s my evening fucking ruined, well done, you _dick_ ,” he scowls at the man in his armchair, now lit crudely in harsh LED brightness. 

Jefferson narrows his eyes back, regards Alex coolly as he bustles about his kitchen, pulling out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey and compares surveillance photos to reality. Unsurprisingly, the candid snaps don’t do him justice. The man is in such an impeccably cut dark suit that, even sitting as informally as he is, it manages to accentuate his obvious muscle mass while still retaining some semblance of his lithe, slim grace. His face is flawless; perfectly proportioned, with smooth dark skin and full lips turned down into a frown, neat beard so close-trimmed it was almost stubble and would surely burn the soft inside of Alex’s thighs beautifully. His mass of curls frame his face, and the perfectly intense, alive, _energy_ he projects makes Alex sort of want to drop to his knees right there, because he almost _shines_. He doesn’t, though. He pushes a glass over the bar in Jefferson’s general direction, walks around and leans on the wall nearby, refuses to bring it over to the living room. He wants to see if he can make this man come to _him_. 

He does, and Alex delights in the win, feels the shiver up his spine as Jefferson dawdles over, lazy and unhurried and glares at Alex as he picks up the glass. Alex holds out a hand, smirks as Jefferson shakes it. His hand is big, so much bigger than Alex’s, strong and rough and Alex wonders idly if it’s spilled any blood today.

“Mister Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton. Anyone ever tell you you have shitty, piss poor timing?”

Jefferson tuts at him, but seems pleased that Alex isn’t going to play dumb over who he is. “You have the nerve to criticize my timing when _you_ invited _me_ over?”

Alex scoffs and puts his hand on his hip in affront. “I asked that you make a verbally coherent request of me, not that you sit creepily in the dark in my apartment being a _massive fucking cockblock_.”

Jefferson’s eyes flash hot down him and then back up again and he raises an imperious eyebrow that makes Alex want to squirm. “You didn’t have to stop on my account.”

“Oh I wouldn’t have done,” Alex snaps, renewed annoyance at not-Chad flaring, because _oh hell_ , that would have been _really_ fun. He glares at the closed front door and mumbles _fuckin’ pussy_. Jefferson snorts again.

“Somehow I actually believe that,” he says and sounds amused. Alex turns the glare on him. 

“So was there something you wanted, or what?” 

“You know, I’ve had people gutted for speaking to me more politely than that.” Jefferson says idly, looking over Alex’s face. He looks a little confused. It’s Alex’s turn to snort. He sips his drink and waits, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

“Withdraw from prosecuting the case against John Adams,” Jefferson says eventually, straight up like that, no fucking around and it’s a demand, an order rather than a request. He’s calm and cool and doesn’t seem to give a fuck that he’s implicated himself here, it’s his word against Alex’s and that’s enough. 

“My withdrawal doesn’t make the case go away, Mister Jefferson.” Alex snarks. “Anyone else would love to take over the prosecution after me.”

“Anyone _else_ will lose.” he says, matter-of-fact and Alex can’t help preen in sheer delight, smiling in spite of himself, cocking his head in agreement.

“Sure. That’s sort of why they’ve asked me to do it,” he grins. Jefferson’s face is impassive as Alex hums in consideration. “What do _I_ get out of it?”

Jefferson chuckles in dark disbelief. “You get to stay alive?”

Alex waves a dismissive hand and takes another drink. “ _Boring._ What else?”

“Are you asking me for a bribe, Mister Hamilton?” Jefferson says bluntly, eyes calculating. Alex scowls in disgust. 

“Ugh, _no_. I don’t want your fucking money, thanks. I won’t be _bought_.” 

“Then what _do_ you want?” 

And isn’t that _wonderful_. Alex revels in it. Lower-your-voice-when-you-speak-about-him Thomas goddamn Jefferson in his kitchen asking what _Alex_ wants. What’s hysterical is that he doesn’t even know what he really wanted to get out of playing this game when he sent the hand back besides a _fuck you_ or a _thank you_ , he’s not quite sure, he was just chasing that buzz of excitement, but right here, right now he’s still hard and horny and Jefferson is _hot_ and would have sat there and watched him get fucked by not-Chad and is basically all his ego, power and danger kinks rolled into one, so he smiles wide and speaks slow and careful. 

“You know, there exists this funny little law that says I can’t prosecute any case connected directly to anyone whom I’ve had a personal relationship with.”

Jefferson’s silent as it sinks in, and when it does he blinks at Alex over the rim of his glass.

“Are you asking to _date_ me, Alexander Hamilton?” he asks mildly, even as his eyes flicker down to Alex’s flies still half open and his pupils dilate, all heat and hunger and they both know he’s being deliberately obtuse as he muses aloud; “Do you want me to take you out all fancy, like a special little lady; treat you _nice_ , bring you beautiful roses-“ 

“Fuck that. Roses are overdone and insufferably obnoxious. Daisies are-”

“-for poor people.” Jefferson finishes, dismissive, steps into his space. Alex steps back.

“Does it look like I drive a Bentley to you? Anyway, being seen outside with you, Mister Jefferson, would ruin my shiny reputation. I’d prefer something more _private_.” He smirks. 

Jefferson gapes at him, incredulous. “Are you actually _outright propositioning me_ right now? After having the balls to say _you_ couldn’t be bought? You think _I_ can?”

Alex shrugs, gestures down at the outline of his own dick visible in his tight jeans, still half hard, and wonders idly, curiously, detachedly, if this is going to be the moment he dies. “It’s the least you can do, really. This is sort of your fault, you know. Besides, you’re gonna need _something_ to fall back on soon ‘cause it’s not like you can even run a fucking casino-“

Jefferson’s glass smashes against the wall a few feet from his head, shiny shards and amber liquid spilling out across his floor and _damn_ , he’s definitely going to tread on glass in the morning when he forgets to clean that up. Alex grins wildly even as he ducks, back tight up at the wall and Jefferson is in his face, voice rough. “I could put a bullet in your precious brain right now you-“

“Fucking do it then, or stop making threats you won’t keep, it makes you look like a wuss,” Alex hisses through his teeth, because he can feel Jefferson hard up against his hip and he’s ninety-nine percent certain he’s gonna get a dick in him instead of a bullet and even if he’s wrong, he won’t be around to regret it for long, so fuck it. 

Jefferson grabs Alex’s chin tight and pulls it up until they’re eye-to-eye, all that vicious intent focused right on Alex and it’s glorious and electric and burning fire. 

“Not a fan of screaming people’s names, then?” he asks, cool and quiet and teasing, lips moving a hair’s breadth from Alex’s. 

“Not when it’s not _warranted_ , Mister Jefferson,” Alex grits out. 

“ _Thomas_.” Jefferson demands haughtily. “When it _is_ , you’ll scream _Thomas._ ” 

Alex can’t really snark back after that because there are hard lips on his, hungry and bruising. He kisses Alex like a wrecking ball, driving his way inside Alex’s mouth with his tongue, a hot, unyielding force that Alex has no choice but to open for and take. Not that he’s complaining at all, far from it, as he thinks _in for a penny_ and sinks hands into Jefferson’s curly halo, tugs and angles his head further down, bites at his tongue, presses his hips up against Jefferson's until they both moan. The same destructive force attacking his mouth gets turned on his shirt and he hears one button and then another go skittering off to join the glass on the floor, wrenches his mouth back with some effort to protest.

“ _Hey_ , watch it. I _liked_ that shir-”

“Are you fucking serious, right now?” Jefferson closes the gap between their faces and presses their lips together again once, twice, pulls back to work down Alex’s jawline, his neck. Alex bares it to him without a thought. “I’ll buy you a new one,” Thomas half-promises into his collarbone distractedly. “I’ll buy you a _nicer_ one. You clothes are shit.”

Alex doesn’t really know what do with that weird tenderness, falls back into natural habits; complaining. Just for petty payback he rips a few of the man’s own shirt buttons off, sliding his hands inside to smooth over muscled skin. “Fuck you. I don’t _want_ a nicer one. I want this one. I _like_ my fucking clothes. I-”

“ _Do you ever shut the fuck up_?” Jefferson growls, exasperated. 

“Do you know,” Alex breathes, “People always ask me that.” Jefferson snorts a laugh into his skin in spite of himself, drags Alex by his collar away from the pile of glass at their feet, shoves him onto the floor, tugs at his jeans, his boxers, his flapping shirt until Alex is vulnerable and naked underneath him, finally a little off-kilter and defenseless while he’s still there in his half-open shirt and pants. He seems to like it like that, runs spread palms from Alex’s knees all the way up to his armpits, thumbs catching his hipbones and teasing at his nipples on the way up, making him squirm. He presses down into Alex until the soft material of his suit pants is rubbing tight against the head of his dick, leaking a little against his stomach and Alex jerks his hips up to grind them together. Jefferson groans into his mouth. 

“ _Lube_ ,” he orders, no messing around, bossy and right to it. Alex reaches out a hand to pat his discarded jeans until he finds the small packet and a condom in his pocket and hands them over. The man hums mockingly against his lips. “Have big plans tonight, did you?”

“Right up until some asshole fucking ruined them, sure. Now I guess- now I guess- _oh fuck, yes_ \- I gotta take what I can get- _shit_.” 

It’s not his best comeback, and it’s punctuated by an embarrassingly loud moan as Thomas slides one thick, lubed finger right into him without preamble or fuss, but it feels fucking fantastic and he’s already crooking it and gracing it over that sparking bit inside him every second thrust of the digit up into Alex, so he’s not going to judge himself too harshly. He scrabbles at the guy’s shoulders for purchase, digs his fingers in and rocks up into the intrusion until Jefferson growls and pulls the finger out, pushes his legs wider apart until he’s spread open on his living room floor, wriggling, two fingers sinking deep in him now and-

“ _Fuck_ ,” Alex hisses as his calf meets what must be a shard of glass flung this far across the room, sharp pain slicing up the muscle for a second before Thomas lifts his leg and leans to investigate, and really, Alex can see it now, it’s only a shallow cut, it’s fine, but it’s bleeding quite impressively and when Jefferson squeezes the flesh slightly his hand comes away wet and red; Alex’s blood drips slowly over his wrist, blossoming onto his shirt cuff and it wrecks him that _that_ would maybe be what it would look like if he _had_ just gone ahead and gutted Alex and suddenly he can’t stop the whimpering noise he makes. 

Jefferson’s eyes flash to him and he grips his calf tight again, squeezes until Alex whines at the pain and the smear of blood up his leg and thrusts up into the two fingers still scissoring him open. He swears roughly, leans in to kiss Alex hard and fast and dirty and nip down his neck.

“You’re a bit weird, you know,” he whispers, but it sounds kind of ragged, hand gripping Alex’s hip, keeps him still, maddeningly stopping him from rocking anywhere as he works those miracle fingers inside him. Alex can feel his own blood and sweat between them where he’s holding on.

“Says- _oh god_ \- says the guy who sent me a fucking _hand_.” Alex spits back, a little offended. Thomas barks a surprised laugh. 

“Sorry about ruining your pillow.” Alex can feel the smirk against his throat where he’s sucking bruises, grazing them with his teeth afterward. He doesn't sound sorry. Alex puts both hands on the back of his head and holds him there, rolls his own head back and bares more of his neck.

“You didn’t,” he says around a moan. “It smells better now.” He jerks and shudders as Thomas bites down hard on the skin under his mouth, hips reflexively snapping forward to grind into the space where he’s fingerfucking Alex to distraction. 

“God, did you _like_ it?” he groans, wrecked, into Alex’s neck. “I bet you did as well, didn’t you. Bet you buried your face in it and jerked off until you came all over yourself, _didn’t you_?” He says it like he’s pleading, like he’s just hoping he’d had that much of an effect and _well_ , it’s not like he’s _wrong_ , so Alex whimpers out a _fuck, yes, okay_ and gets rewarded with the shove of a third, trembling finger inside him, punching his breath out harshly.

“You’re un-fucking-believable,” Jefferson mutters, licking over his bite marks again and again, and it might be that he’s trying to be snarky but it sounds too blown and shaky to land properly, just ends up sounding like an awestruck complement that Alex takes with a shiver.

“You wrapped it in my paper,” he whines, defending himself anyway. “It was _left_ and you wrapped it in my _paper_ ,” and Thomas moans as he pulls up to kiss him again, hard and panting into his open mouth. 

“ _You liked it_ ,” he rumbles again, reverent and more sure this time, a statement. “You fucking liked it.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Alex breathes and then it turns into a mantra, because Jefferson quickly yanks his fingers free and immediately replaces them with his cock, sliding hot and fast and brutal and _bare_ up into him, and okay, hello, _rude,_ and he should probably be a little concerned about that, but _fuck,_ it’s _huge_ and a little painful and so, so good and he can’t bring himself to give a fuck. “ _Yes, yes, yes, yes, Thomas, fuck, yes._ ”

Jefferson growls and hoists one of Alex’s legs up on his shoulder, the other over his elbow until Alex is as open as he can possibly get, bent almost in two as the guy fucks into him, hard and fast and _perfect_. 

“Fucking _fuck_ , oh, oh, _Thomas_ -” Alex pants as he grabs at sweaty skin and tries to rock up into the thrusts shaking his bones, feeling stupid and on fire inside. “- _yes_ , like that. God, _tu te sens si bien en moi, merde_ -”

Thomas slaps his ass hard, barks out _in english_ and Alex complies readily, _you feel so good inside me, harder, more, yes_ and claws hard at his back with shaking fingers, feels him stiffen and groan under Alex’s scrabbling hands.

“ _Yeah_ , you- fucking _shit_. Is that you, then huh?” he chuckles, voice hoarse and ravaged, “Scrappy little kitten thinking you’re a wildcat. _Cute_.” Alex hisses and drags his bitten nails over Thomas’ shoulders for good measure, feels him moan in his chest and lose rhythm for a moment.

“Not _cute._ and I'm not a fucking _kitten_.”

Thomas shifts and when his cock slams into Alex he sees stars for a second, makes a high, keening noise he didn’t intend to. Cotton-covered flesh rasps up against his dick and he’s so _close_ already, zero-to-one hundred, quick and dirty and explosive like a fucking flash grenade in his gut. “Prove it.”

Alex rears up and bites down on his lip, so hard he thinks he might almost go all the way through the flesh for a second and shivers at the thought, certainly hard enough that he tastes more than a little blood. Jefferson snarls and pulls his hair, snaps his hips hard and that's all it takes, Alex yells out as he comes between them, rigid and digging his fingers tight into smooth, dark skin. Thomas’ hips stutter as Alex clenches and shakes and he feels it burning hot and deep in him when he comes too, hissing out an _oh fucking Christ, yes_ , and that’s gonna be really gross in about ten minutes, but right now it makes him whimper and shudder all over again.

Alex doesn’t know what possesses him to do it besides the inclination and the capricious pull in his stomach - he’s never needed much more than that to do anything - but he reaches up and licks over Thomas’ lip as they’re still panting, wants to taste it, wants it to _sting_. It’s coppery and already swelling, traces of blood and sweat and something sweet and dark like molasses underneath. Jefferson, surprisingly, makes a confused noise, but then nudges his nose up against Alex’s lightly, gives him a pleased hum and kisses him properly, slowly. Gently. It’s oddly peaceful for a second.

And then he’s pulling out with a lewd squelch and doing up his pants, and _oh,_ Alex had managed to forget that he’d been pretty much completely dressed, shirt just hanging off his shoulders, while Alex laid there bare and open. He looks down at Alex, gaze sweeping proprietary and cataloging over him, making him feel newly vulnerable, which is ridiculous considering he’s going to be feeling the ache of Jefferson inside him for the next week, already.

“You should come work for me,” Thomas says abruptly into the silence, eyes somewhere not-on-Alex as he does. Alex blinks, confused.

“Er. Hard pass, thanks?”

Jefferson frowns as he grabs his jacket. “I don’t think you understand how very much you _can’t_ tell me no.” 

“Tough shit. _No_. You already have a lawyer. Burr is good enough.” Being full-time professional defense attorney for the mob isn’t his bag. He’ll concede there’s probably good money to be made, but keeping mafia assholes out of prison isn't enough variety for Alex, he needs the excitement too much. Besides, Burr is Alex’s friend. He’s not getting involved in whatever situation Burr has going on with Jefferson. 

“I don’t _want_ good enough.” Thomas says, almost petulantly, shaking on his jacket and doing it up, covering the evidence of Alex’s orgasm smeared up his clothes. 

“I don’t care. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?” Alex scoffs and tries to combat how exposed he feels by doubling down, stretching long and lazy and uncaring, waits curiously to see if he's going to get a boot to the ribs now. He’s just managed to wobble up onto his elbows when Jefferson suddenly huffs and kneels in front of him, grabs his chin and kisses him, once, hard. Alex _mmphs_ in surprise, because he sort of thought they were well past done, but melts into it anyway, opens his mouth and lets the man lick inside until he abruptly pulls back. Alex embarrasses himself by absently chasing his lips forward, whining faintly, but Jefferson chuckles and presses them together lightly once and then twice more before he tips an imaginary hat and smirks _sorry about that case of yours, kitten._

And then he's gone, no boot to the ribs, no cuts or bruises besides the ones Alex was more than happy to have taken, just _gone,_ leaving Alex naked and dazed and stupid, fucked out, a little bit bloody and leaking spunk onto his own living room floor. 

Well. That could have gone worse.

~~~

Washington answers the phone on the fourth ring when Alex calls him the next day, sprawled on his sofa and wearing sneakers inside because he’s not certain he cleaned up all the glass in his early-morning stumbling excuse for effort.

“Alexander, is everything alright son?” He sounds concerned. Alex only spoke to him yesterday. 

“Yessir- well. No. Yes. I slept with this guy.” Alex picks at his cuticle and feels like a teenager. He tries to play up the angle, sound honestly bashful.

An awkward cough. Another one. Alex hears leather creaking as he probably sits. “Right. Well. I _did_ hear something of the sort, though I fail to see-”

“Oh for _fucks_ sake-” Alex stops suddenly and then almost laughs at his good fortune instead. God bless Angelica and her goddamn gossiping making this seem like it’s been a _thing_. “-yessir. Well,… turns out it was, er. Jefferson, sir.”

Alex willfully refrains from checking his phone at the following silence. Shifts. Shifts again because the first one sent a pleasant ache through his sore ass and he wants another one. Stops because he’s on the phone to the closest thing he has to a father and that’s probably inappropriate. 

“As in-“

“Mmhmm.”

“Alexander,” he says, stern. “Are you telling me you accidentally fell into bed with _Thomas goddamn Jefferson_?” And oh, he’s a little bit pissed. Alex bites his lip to keep from grinning in case it turns into a full blown laugh and eyes the browning bloodstain on his rug

“It was the floor, actually,” he throws out offhandedly. 

“Sweet Jesus,” Washington mutters faintly. “I didn’t need to know that.” Alex can picture him running his hand over his face. “ _How in the hell-_ wait don’t answer that.” He cuts himself off hurriedly. 

“It’s not like I’d ever _met_ him before,” Alex defends mildly, blinking innocently at his ceiling. Wash lets it go, even though he surely must know Alex is too good for that to be plausible. He wonders if he's about to get another lecture on _not sleeping with people whose names you don't know, Alexander. We don't compromise our safety for thrills._ He grimaces. Washington, thankfully, is already ten steps ahead.

“Well I appreciate your _integrity_ in declaring it,” he says flatly, knowing full well the game Alex is playing and Alex almost chokes on his own spit keeping in his sarcastic snort. “Mercer will be spitting, you know. He really wanted that Adams win.”

“He can find someone else to prosecute it. Vincent, maybe.” Alex shrugs, uncaring and can almost feel the _look_ he’s getting from the other side of the city. They both know the case is fucked, regardless. “Sorry,” he adds belatedly, not sounding sorry at all, because he isn’t.

“Alex...” Washington starts pointedly, because he’s not a moron and Alex isn’t being any kind of subtle. He rethinks it though, because he sighs resignedly, must know all too well Alex will surely do whatever Alex _wants_ to do and obviously doesn’t have any desire to be on the opposite end of that losing battle, because he just says; “Are you still coming for dinner tomorrow? Martha’s making casserole.”

And that’s that.

~~~

Or it would be. Except the next morning Alex answers the door to a lanky kid with thick black-rimmed glasses and acne on his chin, wearing a smart black suit and a nervous expression and proffering a _Gucci_ bag. Alex takes one look at the brand new shirt in the bottom, sitting there crisp and white and probably costing more than his entire wardrobe and says _oh hell no. Tell him no. I’m not wearing that. I already said I didn’t want it. I want my shirt fixed or nothing_.

He fetches his favorite shirt and it’s two sad, dismembered buttons and sits them in the top of the bag instead with a flicker of excitement. The hilariously horrified expression on the kid’s face, presumably at having to go back and repeat Alex’s rejection, is already completely worth the loss of his shirt if he doesn’t get it back. That’ll entertain him for weeks.

After probably-not-enough consideration - because Alexander absolutely _does_ compromise his safety in the pursuit of thrills - he puts a spare key to his apartment in the shirt pocket. An open invitation.

His lock is clearly for shit, but it’s the principle of the thing.

~~~

Two days later he comes home from work to find his own shirt folded neatly and sitting in perfect condition on his kitchen counter. 

Beside a bunch of fresh daisies. 

Huh.

Well, okay then. 

**Author's Note:**

> You guys, Thomas is so fucking confused all the way through this. He has no idea what the fuck is going on and why he's letting it happen but it just keeps happening. 
> 
> Translations:  
> tu te sens si bien en moi, merde / you feel so good in me, shit  
> ~~  
> [title inspired by lyric from: Gucci Mane – Decapitated]


End file.
